A Critical Review And Analysis Of “Fashion Cats”

I’m just going to say it: like tiny Alexander McQueens, the fashion cats, which we discussed earlier today, are not “artists.” I don’t even know, despite their recent belly-dive into the spotlight, if they can be categorized as models, because to put them in the same line-up as say, the great Dovima or “The Trinity” seems like comparing apples to feral dogs. If I had to categorize them – and I think Karl Lagerfeld would concur here – I would call them “cats who allow their pictures to be taken.” Which calls into question whether we, and by we I mean the human race, are just some sort of sick paparazzi costumiers (yes).

Whatever. The cats. The Fashion Cats. They are stars. The are Andy Warhol’s superstar of a new furry new world. Everything is ending, nothing is good anymore, nothing is even human anymore.

But if I’m proud of anything at TheGloss I’m proud of the way we aren’t caught up in mewling, pandering idol worship. You say “rub our belly” we say “I hope you rot, you bastard.” So let’s walk through the fashion cat’s first “show” and see what they pull off purrfectly and what, frankly, just seems weak, unimaginative and juvenile.